Miss Behave (The Anderson Family Series Book 1)

by Traci Highland

  “Thought that you’d take a scarf given only to potential DOTRM members and show it off to your friends? Would you take Ted’s Shriner’s hat, too, if we left it out?”

  “Now, Annie, did you label it? She didn’t know. Look at her face.” Aunt Elise grabs my hand.

  “I’m not going to label something that’s sitting in my own house!” Mom shouts and the priest and a good third of the room turns and stares.

  Elise says, “C’mon Piper, sit down and play a round or two and we’ll forget all about-“

  Mom shakes as she wipes her eyes. “This means a lot to me. And I know you may not be able to understand-”

  “B5”

  I pull the scarf from my neck and drop it on the table. “This is insane! I didn’t take it on purpose!”

  Ladies look up from their boards and the priest grimaces, saying, “And now for a G. G 61”

  My throat wells with tears and I cough out, “All I wanted to do was to give Elise a Bruno Sammartino program!”

  he scarf and the program land on the table like bombs, sending dabber bottles rolling over in every direction. The hens at the table go scurrying around to fix things quick before the next number is called.

  “Now, Piper.” Aunt Elise starts, but I blink back the wetness in my eyes and shake my head. As I turn my back on them, I hear Elise turn to mom, “Dammit, Annie. We have to work on your interpersonal skills.”

  “O 75”

  I walk across the room towards the exit, the eyes of the crowd burning into my skull.

  “Bingo.” I hear mom state.

  Chapter 4

  Things Not to Say To Gun Enthusiasts

  Dear Miss Behave,

  I hate my ex-husband. I’m an experienced markswoman and I really can’t take his b.s. another second. Can I just shoot him?

  Sincerely,

  Bonnie seeking to rid herself of Clyde

  Dear Bonnie,

  Wow, darling, there are a few things here, so let me start with number one: killing your ex-husband is not okay. Though lots of people feel obligated to write nasty emails about my lack of a moral code, I think both me and the haters can agree that murder is never the answer. So kudos to you for not doing him in!

  The second thing: you need counseling, darling.

  Love and Margaritas,

  Miss Behave

  “I’m not sure why she flipped out like that.” I shout, clamping my hands over the earmuffs some guy named Tim handed me as we walked into the firing range. Gun club. Whatever.

  Mags, my older sister, a non-identical twin to my sister Betty, doesn’t even acknowledge me, her back straight and legs locked.

  She’s all about the focus-on-the-paper-target-man thing and less about the little-sister-cowering-near-the-wood-divide-hoping-no-one-accidently-shoots-her thing. She shoots like she’s straight out of some videogame, her oversized protective glasses and muffs add the whole pissed-off girl look.

  The sound of gunshots exploding all around me hurts my ears. So much for returning Mom’s calls. She sent me a letter with a curt message inside:

  Sorry I left the scarf on the counter, I should have put it someplace else. Forgive me for snapping.

  Which is just as much a command to be forgiven as it is an apology. Her and that stupid scarf. Some things never change. The woman is a total enigma.

  My dad, even though he left when I was little, was at least interesting. A photojournalist who traveled all over the world, I would live for his emails describing his travels and the pictures he’d send. And even when he wasn’t sending pictures, he set us up in a Fantasy Football league together, so even when communication was rare, we were always still sort of connected.

  Mags’ shoulders shudder with reverb as she methodically works her way through each of the four guns she’s paid to shoot, her smile growing exponentially with each shot. Once a month she gets a morning off, and so this morning, instead of my usual sojourn into Boston to visit her, she drove on down to come with me to the gun range.

  “You’re being too hard on Mom. That club means a lot to her.”

  “So I gathered. I don’t see why she cares so much about some club.”

  “It’s about recognition. She’s busted her ass for years on that soup kitchen and all its brought her is a bunch of headaches and a few rounds of lice. Now some group wants to recognize her for years of hard work? I think it’s great.”

  “I think it’s all about appearances. Remember how she refused to put us in anything but dresses when we were growing up? I would have killed to be able to just wear a pair of damned jeans.”

  “That was more about finding the clothes with the least wear and tear out of the bins at Goodwill than it was about appearances.”

  “Oh yeah? Then why did she make sure we had makeup on every day before high school?” I rub my hands together against the slight chill, what a change from the late summer like day we had yesterday. And I nod to the pair of wiry old men sporting flannel jackets as thick as their nose hair that saunter into the cubicle beside us.

  She slams the gun down onto the astro-turf lined shelf in front of her and I jump. “God, I hated that. But still, maybe she just wanted us to put on a brave or something.”

  “More like she didn’t want us to embarrass her.”

  Where on earth is Mrs. Brookes?

  “She had a crap-ass time of it, having to divorce dad. You ever end a relationship that you had planned to commit to for the rest of your life? Because let me tell you, it sucks.”

  I sigh.

  “Don’t give me that heavy sigh crap. I know you haven’t been married, but look at how tore up you were over Hicks.”

  The words stab at my center and I shove my hands in my pocket so they won’t shake.

  God, it’s been years and still the memory of that night lodges in my chest like a boulder. How can the hurt be so raw, time is supposed to heal all wounds, right? Well, Father Time, I’m still waiting.

  She lowers the gun and reaches out to pat me on the shoulder, “Don’t be so quick to judge people when they have to end something that they hoped would be perfect. That sort of crap has ripple effects that can hang on for the rest of your life.”

  Mags was married once. Once. To a philanderer named Bob. Mags and Bob were having a tough time conceiving a child, so Bob decided that he had some sort of mandate to attempt to impregnate every woman he saw. Like the world needed more horny balding accountants that chewed with their mouths open. The marriage didn’t end well, but at least it ended.

  I think back to the few times I’ve initiated the dumping.

  First, there was Gregory. Gregory was cute, too cute. I mean, he was full-on matching-outfit, bought-me-stuffed-animals-every-day, named-our-children-on-our-first-date cute. So after he shoved another blue teddy bear holding a heart at me during study hall and showed me his own, matching bear, I told him it was over. Not knowing what to say, I said that we had, “irreconcilable differences.”

  His face washed white like a dinner plate being scraped into the garbage after particularly saucy meal and he ran off sobbing.

  Next was John Smith. Yes, I know, John Smith. It sounds a lot like the name of an anonymous body in a morgue not so much like a boyfriend. He was smart. And funny. And in a lot of my classes at college.

  But John Smith was obsessed with action figures. The walls of his dorm room were covered with action figures in shiny plastic wrappings. It was sort of cute at first.

  Unfortunately, every place we went, everything we did together turned into a superhero death match. Who would win against a shark, Mega Man or Aquaman? The answer? I had no idea. And I didn't care. After a while it was clear the relationship was doomed. So again I found myself having to end it. Since the irreconcilable differences line didn't go over so well the first time, I decided I better try a new tactic.

  Honesty.

  Honesty, as it turned out, didn’t go over so well, either.

  So, when I told him over the phone that we couldn’t da
te anymore because I just wasn't that into superheroes, I thought he would understand. I mean, it should’ve been clear that when he was telling me about the finer points of Iron Man's life history I was zoning out, right?

  As it turns out, no, no it wasn't clear and he seemed stunned. Shocked.

  And hurt.

  It sucked.

  I shiver and rub my hands up and down my arms, the familiar stab of pain lingering around in my ribcage.

  Mags’ pocket dings and she pulls out her phone. “Crap. I have to go, I swear the one day I leave town and all hell breaks loose at work. Can you call Gen for a ride home?”

  “You! You with the terrible hair!” Mrs. Brookes comes marching up to us, her perfectly chic outfit of a tailored white shirt and brown leather bomber jacket complete with a jewel-studded scarf.

  I hate to admit it, but Mrs. Brookes, much like her son, is a real stunner. And I mean the kind of stunning that comes from that perfect mixture of good genes and even better clothes.

  Unlike her son, however, Mrs. Brookes has all the charm of a deep fried Twinkie, sounding good at first, and then you taste it and realize that every bite comes with a hefty dose of heartburn.

  “She can’t mean you. I’m gonna kick her ass.” Mags says, but I know that she does mean me. It’s the curls, they fly all over in the wind. If my hair was green and not blond sometimes I think I’d look just like Medusa.

  “Please don’t. Just go, I’ll call Gen, it’s fine.” I say to Mags as we watch Mrs. Brookes stumble and recover. Designer boots, it seems, are not really made for walking. An assistant scrambles up from the rear, helping her to steady herself.

  “Where’s the large, fat woman?” -Mrs. Brookes grimaces, her lips set in a sort of perma-frown- “I wanted the ugly girl to do the piece.”

  Large and fat both mean the same thing and I would tell her so if my ears didn’t burn and my fists didn’t ache to punch her in the jaw. “Hildy is a friend of mine, and she is so much more than just her size.”

  “Well I know that. She has talent, that’s why I wanted her to write our award-winning profile.” Mrs. Brookes huffs, waving me dismissively to follow.

  “Um, it’s not award-winning; it hasn’t been written yet.”

  “Now that you’re writing it, it most assuredly never will be award-winning, will it?” She marches past the gentlemen with the nose hair and the coats, giving them a stiff-arm to get them to move out of her path, like she gives no weight to the fact that they’re armed and that anyone with half a brain would be at least slightly tempted to shoot her. Mags, her posture stiff, grinds her teeth and I give her a quick wave goodbye.

  Following Mrs. Brookes, I feel sort of queasy.

  Mrs. Brookes pushes the door to the clay pigeon shooting section of the range and rips the her rifle out of the hands of her mouse-like assistant with a gruff, “Give it here.”

  “C’mon, I doubt you’ll be as impressed with my shooting as that other girl would be, but there will be those in town who can admire the skill, too. Just be sure you take pictures from my left.” She pauses after placing her earmuffs on over her wispy dark strands, her face curled in like a ferret’s. She waves her left arm at me. “This side. Let’s go.”

  Hmm, I think writing a piece that’s not entirely negative is going to end up being the greater problem.

  The clay pigeon releases from the projector and she aims her rifle and shoots, missing the target by a wide margin. She utters a string of curses. The next target flies and she misses again.

  Tearing off her headphones, Mrs. Brookes declares, “I need water.” Then holds out her hand as her assistant places a bottle of water in her hand.

  What am I supposed to write, exactly? This tells me nothing about how to make jewelry or how to sell jewelry or how the business began.

  “Mrs. Brookes, when did you first know that you wanted to become a jeweler?”

  “My bastard ex-husband designed jewelry. I had money and bought him a store to sell it. Grew from there. You think he’d be grateful.”

  Opening my mouth to ask a question, she shoves her finger in my face, hissing, “Don’t think those cute little tits of yours are going to keep anyone. The second you hit forty, he’s going to be chasing some perky little twit who will spread her legs and let him rut all over her.”

  “I don’t think I can use this information in my article-”

  “That’s why I wanted the fat girl. She’d be able to spin it right.”

  “It’s not a matter of spin-“

  “I’m not going to do your job for you. This damn town is failing. And if the town fails, my business will suffer and we’ll have to move the business and lose all the tax benefits we enjoy here.”

  “So you stay here because of the tax code?”

  She gets in my face, the gun noticeably placed between us. “I stay here because this is my town. I grew up in this town, cheered for its terrible football team in high school, waited in two hour lines at our gas stations in the seventies and suffered through the hideous blight of strip malls that I was afraid would kill its character in the eighties. The town and I are one.”

  “That’s terribly philosophical, I can totally use that.”

  “God, I hope you don’t use so many adverbs when you write.”

  I step up closer to her assistant, a skinny woman around my age who hides in her oversized fleece like a turtle. “So, what’s it like to work with Mrs. Brookes?”

  “I’m not supposed to talk to the media.” She ducks her head and grabs Mrs. Brookes spent bottle of water and places it into the recycling bin.

  “That’s okay, honey.” Mrs. Brookes smile is wide and plastic. “She’s not any kind of real media. They went and sent us the advice columnist.”

  My cheeks and neck burn and my mind blanks. I’ve got nothing to say, no witty comebacks, nothing.

  I’m sure I’ll have a ton for the car ride home, but right now I have nothing. So I stand here, pen in hand, helpless.

  Mrs. Brookes leans in close, her eyes cruel and set in straight, wicked lines, “I know everything and everyone in this town, little girl.” -she grabs my shirt- “And you better keep your clothes on next time you go out in my woods.”

  She releases me with a shove and pulls the rifle up to aim at the next clay pigeon.

  This time she hits her target.

  Ann

  “Hello, Piper? It’s your mother calling. Listen, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry about over-reacting when I saw you in that scarf. It was, well, it was a shock. Call me back when you get a chance. Thank you.”

  She’s convinced that the message is going to go over about as well as a striptease at a home and garden expo, but it can’t be helped. Placing the phone on the table, she stares across the room to where Ted and Elise sit with cards in their hands. Elise showed up at her door wanting to play canasta, but Ann knew that she wanted to make sure that Ann apologized to Piper, and that she would sit at the table pretending to play canasta until she heard it happen.

  For whatever reason, Elise has always pushed her towards Piper, like she could sense that there was something there that wasn’t quite right. Ann shakes away the thought as she pulls out a chair to join them.

  “It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have left the brownies so close to the scarf. It was an innocent mistake.” Ted’s apology fills her with equal parts loathing and pride. She loves him, she does, but he shouldn’t apologize for her over reacting.

  “Don’t be silly,” Ann smiles at her husband and leans towards the cards waiting for her on the table.

  Elise says, “If you weren’t so touchy about this cult of yours-“

  “It’s not a cult, it’s a charitable organization.” Ann is going to pull out her hair if she has to defend the Daughters to her sister again.

  “Ann’s always been a fan of cults. Remember, honey, you made me sit through hours of those documentaries about them.” Ted doesn’t meet her eyes, just shifts the cards around in his hand.

  “
It’s because you’re too eager to please, Annie. Cults love nice girls like you.”

  “No, I’m just thrilled that a girl like me could ever even get such a thing. Only rich girls and debutantes get invitations to the Daughters, not girls from the backwaters of the Berkshires like us. I keep trying to imagine how excited mom would be if she was still alive.”

  “Just because mom would have liked it doesn’t mean it’s a good thing.” Elise tosses a handful of honey roasted peanuts into her mouth. “She liked all sorts of terrible things, like headcheese and liverwurst.”

  “I like liverwurst.” Ted adds with a sly grin. “But your sister never lets me eat it.”

  “It’s bad for your heart.” Ann sighs as she examines the dismal hand of cards in her hand. “It’s all pointless though, isn’t it? The Daughters of the Royal Mountain sent me an email this morning talking about the Daughters’ tenets on the family. Apparently they require evidence of “strong bonds and mutual respect”.

  How on earth am I going to prove such a thing? I am a terrible mother. I was never one of those cookie-baking, boo-boo kissing sad sacks. You fall down, you brush off your knees, get your own band aid and keep things moving. They’re sure to reject my final application anyway.”

  Elise rolls her eyes and slams her hands on the table, causing the bowl of peanuts to jump. “Listen, no sister of mine is backing down from a fight. If you want to join this stupid Chanel-wearing coterie, you will. Are any of you daughters in jail? No. Have they ever considered stripping a valid career choice? No. Then you are a damn fine mother.”

  “You are a wonderful mother, sweetheart,” Ted adds, his face softened as he reaches out and grabs her hand and squeezes. Ann’s throat dries. If he only knew.

  Elise nods and picks up her cards. “Good. Now shut up and join your cult, Annie.”

  Chapter 5

  An Unexpected Guest